The Yanks Come to Achnacarry: A WWII Tale of Tough Training and Tall Tales
22 Nov 2025
In the 1940s, Achnacarry in Scotland was a whirlwind of military activity—a training ground buzzing with soldiers from around the world, all gearing up for the battles ahead.
British troops had already endured its gruelling regimen, but now a new challenge was on the horizon: the Americans were coming.
Colonel Charles Vaughan, the commanding officer of the Commando Basic Training Centre at Achnacarry, received word that 600 men and 29 officers from the U.S. Army Rangers would soon arrive to tackle the course.
Concerned that the Americans might find it too straightforward, Vaughan rallied his instructors: "Gentlemen, we must make it hard for them—very hard indeed."
With a mischievous glint in his eye, Vaughan began plotting ways to showcase British grit while introducing the Yanks to the rigors of Scottish training. The reputation of Achnacarry was at stake, and this was the perfect opportunity to uphold it.
The Rangers' Rainy Welcome to Scotland
The Rangers were scheduled to arrive by train at Fort William at 5 a.m.
What better way to prepare than a night out? Vaughan insisted his team attend a local dance the evening before. Come morning, still in their party clothes, the instructors changed into battledress in the station waiting room and prepared to greet their guests.
Determined to set the tone, Vaughan personally led the seven-mile march from the station to Achnacarry, with Colonel William Darby, the Rangers' leader, by his side. Flanked by instructors, the procession set off in the inevitable Scottish rain.
After a couple of miles, Darby turned to Vaughan and asked, "Say, Colonel, do you always make your men walk to the depot this way?"
Vaughan, ever the showman, pointed toward the looming Ben Nevis. "My dear chap, do you see that hill over there?"
"Yeah, it looks quite a mountain," Darby replied.
"Well, my chaps usually run up that hill and walk the eighteen miles back to camp before lunch," Vaughan boasted, seizing every chance to elevate the Commando standards.
No Halts in the Commandos
As the miles wore on and fatigue set in, Darby inquired again: "Don’t you ever call a halt in the Commandos, Colonel?"
Vaughan, chest out and pace unrelenting, responded, "We never halt in the Commandos, Colonel. Not until we get to the bitter end."
Internally, he was exhausted, but he masked it masterfully. To drive the point home, he mentioned that he and his men had been dancing all night with no sleep—another subtle jab at their endurance.
Arrival at the Gates of Grit
By the time they reached Achnacarry's gates, the Rangers were disheartened. As per tradition, the group halted before mock graves set up as a stark welcome. One Ranger muttered to his buddy, "Some set-up. They kill you on the march here—and then bury you at the gates!"
Thirsty from the trek, the Americans sought refreshment. A Ranger approached Sergeant Taffy Edwards, an instructor, asking about a nearby bar.
"Sure," Taffy replied, pointing down the road. "It’s in Spean Bridge—the place your train arrived at."
"Is it far?"
"No, not far. Only seven miles."
As the Rangers surveyed their new surroundings—the rugged hills, Achnacarry Castle, dense trees, bracken, and Nissen huts—one grumbled, "What a dump." Vaughan, overhearing, resolved to intensify the training.
Already, the course simulated real combat with live bullets whizzing near trainees on the "Death Ride" (a zip-line across the river) and grenades exploding below.
Toggle bridges received similar "enhancements" to keep everyone alert.
Amping Up the Obstacles for the Yanks
With the Americans in mind, Vaughan escalated things: rifles were joined by Tommy guns, and hand grenades by underwater demolition charges. The day's highlight? A mishap that left even the unflappable colonel red-faced.
Instructors Donald Gilchrist and Alick Mor had planted oversized charges in the River Arkaig beneath the Death Ride and toggle bridge. Alick, always one for flair, added a "special" charge.
As the Rangers began crossing to the whine of bullets, the stutter of machine guns, and the roar of grenades, Vaughan watched alongside Lord Lochiel, the estate's owner who had loaned the land for training.
Vaughan signaled, and the first charges detonated—BOOM! Water and pebbles showered a mid-rope Ranger, leaving him drenched and dazed but intact.
A second blast followed for the next man—same result.
Then Alick triggered his masterpiece: BOOOOOMMMM!
The explosion shook the ground. The Ranger on the rope braced for a plunge.
And then... something unexpected soared into the air: a massive salmon, its yellow scales glistening, belly up and clearly deceased. It smacked back into the water and drifted downstream.
Gilchrist glanced at Lochiel, who stared in disbelief—it was his fish, after all.
Vaughan, having spotted the salmon, averted his gaze, pretending ignorance. Gilchrist followed suit. Alick, oblivious, joined the charade. If no one acknowledged it, perhaps it hadn't happened.
But a sharp-eyed Yankee sergeant had seen it. He waded into the river, retrieved the fish, and plopped it at Vaughan's feet.
"That sure is some fish ya got there, Colonel."
Vaughan was furious—thanks a lot, mate.
This dit captures the blend of rivalry, humour, and resilience that defined wartime training at Achnacarry. The Rangers emerged tougher for it, forging bonds across the Atlantic in the crucible of Commando life.
